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by Pushkin, Alexander

  Returning to the parlor, they all three sat down; and while the old men recalled their young days, and related anecdotes of their respective careers in the service, Alexey reflected as to what role he should play in the presence of Liza. He decided that an air of cold indifference would be the most becoming under the circumstances, and he prepared to act accordingly. The door opened; he turned his head with such indifference, with such haughty carelessness, that the heart of the most inveterate coquette would inevitably have quaked. Unfortunately, instead of Liza, it was old Miss Jackson, who, painted and tightly laced, entered the room with downcast eyes and with a curtsey, so that Alexey’s remarkable military move was wasted. He had not succeeded in recovering from his confusion, when the door opened again, and this time it was Liza herself who entered.

  All rose; her father was just beginning to introduce his guests, when suddenly he stopped short and bit his lips…. Liza, his dark-complexioned Liza, was painted white up to the ears, and was more heavily made up than even Miss Jackson herself; false curls, much lighter than her own hair, covered her head like the peruke of Louis the Fourteenth; her sleeves à l’imbécile stood out like the hooped skirts of Madame de Pompadour; her figure was pinched in like the letter X, and all her mother’s jewels, which had not yet found their way to the pawnbroker’s, shone upon her fingers, her neck and in her ears.

  Alexey could not possibly recognize his Akulina in the grotesque and dazzling young lady. His father kissed her hand, and he followed his example, though much against his will; when he touched her little white fingers, it seemed to him that they trembled. In the meantime he succeeded in catching a glimpse of her little foot, intentionally advanced and set off to advantage by the most coquettish shoe imaginable. This reconciled him somewhat to the rest of her toilette. As for the paint and powder, it must be confessed that, in the simplicity of his heart, he had not noticed them at the first glance, and afterwards had no suspicion of them. Grigory Ivanovich remembered his promise, and endeavored not to show any astonishment; but his daughter’s prank seemed to him so amusing, that he could scarcely contain himself. But the person who felt no inclination to laugh was the prim English governess. She had a shrewd suspicion that the paint and powder had been extracted from her chest of drawers, and a deep flush of anger was distinctly visible beneath the artificial whiteness of her face. She darted angry glances at the young madcap, who, reserving her explanations for another time, pretended that she did not notice them.

  They sat down to table. Alexey continued to play his role of assumed indifference and absent-mindedness. Liza put on an air of affectation, spoke in a sing-song through her teeth, and only in French. Her father kept constantly looking at her, not understanding her object, but finding it all exceedingly amusing. The English governess fumed with rage and said not a word. Ivan Petrovich alone seemed at home: he ate like two, drank heavily, laughed at his own jokes, and grew more talkative and hilarious every moment.

  At last they all rose from the table; the guests took their departure, and Grigory Ivanovich gave free vent to his laughter and to his questions.

  “What put the idea into your head of fooling them like that?” he said to Liza. “But do you know what? The paint suits you admirably. I do not wish to fathom the mysteries of a lady’s toilette, but if I were in your place, I would very soon begin to paint; not too much, of course, but just a little.”

  Liza was enchanted with the success of her stratagem. She embraced her father, promised him that she would consider his advice, and then hastened to conciliate the indignant Miss Jackson, who with great reluctance consented to open the door and listen to her explanations. Liza was ashamed to appear before strangers with her dark complexion; she had not dared to ask … she felt sure that dear, good Miss Jackson would pardon her, etc., etc. Miss Jackson, feeling convinced that Liza had not wished to make her a laughing-stock by imitating her, calmed down, kissed her, and as a token of reconciliation, made her a present of a small pot of English ceruse, which Liza accepted with every appearance of sincere gratitude.

  The reader will readily imagine that Liza lost no time in repairing to the rendezvous in the little wood the next morning.

  “You were at our master’s yesterday,” she said at once to Alexey. “What do you think of our young mistress?”

  Alexey replied that he had not noticed her.

  “That’s a pity!” replied Liza.

  “Why so?” asked Alexey.

  “Because I wanted to ask you if it is true what they say—”

  “What do they say?”

  “Is it true, as they say, that I am very much like her?”

  “What nonsense! She is a perfect freak compared with you.”

  “Oh, sir, it is very wrong of you to speak like that. Our young mistress is so fair and so stylish! How could I be compared with her!”

  Alexey vowed to her that she was more beautiful than all the fair young ladies in creation, and in order to pacify her completely, he began to describe her mistress in such comical terms that Liza laughed heartily.

  “But,” said she with a sigh, “even though our young mistress may be ridiculous, I am but a poor ignorant thing in comparison with her.”

  “Oh!” said Alexey. “Is that anything to break your heart about? If you wish it, I will soon teach you to read and write.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Liza, “why shouldn’t I try?”

  “Very well, my dear; we will commence at once.”

  They sat down. Alexey drew from his pocket a pencil and notebook, and Akulina learned the alphabet with astonishing rapidity. Alexey could not sufficiently admire her intelligence. The following morning she wished to try to write. At first the pencil refused to obey her, but after a few minutes she was able to trace the letters with tolerable accuracy.

  “It is really wonderful!” said Alexey. “Our method certainly produces quicker results than the Lancaster system.”

  And indeed, at the third lesson Akulina began to spell through Natalya the Boyar’s Daughter, interrupting her reading by observations which really filled Alexey with astonishment, and she filled a whole sheet of paper with aphorisms drawn from the same story.

  A week went by, and a correspondence was established between them. Their letter box was the hollow of an old oak tree, and Nastya acted as their messenger. Thither Alexey carried his letters written in a bold round hand, and there he found on plain blue paper the scrawls of his beloved. Akulina perceptibly began to acquire an elegant style of expression, and her mind developed noticeably.

  Meanwhile, the recently formed acquaintance between Ivan Petrovich Berestov and Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky soon became transformed into a sincere friendship, under the following circumstances. Muromsky frequently reflected that, on the death of Ivan Petrovich, all his possessions would pass into the hands of Alexey Ivanovich, in which case the latter would be one of the wealthiest landed proprietors in the province, and there would be nothing to hinder him from marrying Liza. The elder Berestov, on his side, although recognizing in his neighbor a certain extravagance (or, as he termed it, English folly), was perfectly ready to admit that he possessed many excellent qualities, as for example, his rare resourcefulness. Grigory Ivanovich was closely related to Count Pronsky, a man of distinction and of great influence. The Count could be of great service to Alexey, and Muromsky (so thought Ivan Petrovich) would doubtless rejoice to see his daughter marry so advantageously. By dint of constantly dwelling upon this idea, the two old men came at last to communicate their thoughts to one another. They embraced each other, both promised to do their best to arrange the matter, and they immediately set to work, each on his own side. Muromsky foresaw that he would have some difficulty in persuading his Betsy to become more intimately acquainted with Alexey, whom she had not seen since the memorable dinner. It seemed to him that they had not liked each other much; at least Alexey had not paid any further visits to Priluchino, and Liza had retired to her room every time that Ivan Petrovich had honored them with a
visit.

  “But,” thought Grigory Ivanovich, “if Alexey came to see us every day, Betsy could not help falling in love with him. That is in the nature of things. Time will settle everything.”

  Ivan Petrovich was less uneasy about the success of his designs. That same evening he summoned his son to his study, lit his pipe, and, after a short pause, said: “Well, Alyosha, you have not said anything for a long time about military service. Or has the Hussar uniform lost its charm for you?”

  “No, Father,” replied Alexey respectfully; “but I see that you do not like the idea of my entering the Hussars, and it is my duty to obey you.”

  “Good,” replied Ivan Petrovich; “I see that you are an obedient son; that is a consolation to me…. On my side, I do not wish to compel you; I do not want to force you to enter … the civil service … at once, but, in the meanwhile, I intend you to get married.”

  “To whom, Father?” asked Alexey, in astonishment.

  “To Lizaveta Grigoryevna Muromsky,” replied Ivan Petrovich. “She is a fine bride, is she not?”

  “Father, I have not thought of marriage yet.”

  “You have not thought of it, and therefore I have thought of it for you.”

  “As you please, but I do not care for Liza Muromsky in the least.”

  “You will get to like her afterwards. Love comes with time.”

  “I do not feel capable of making her happy.”

  “Do not fret about making her happy. What? Is this how you respect your father’s wish? Very well!”

  “As you choose. I do not wish to marry, and I will not marry.”

  “You will marry, or I will curse you; and as for my estate, as true as there is a God in heaven, I will sell it and squander the money, and not leave you a farthing. I will give you three days to think about the matter; and in the meantime, keep out of my sight.”

  Alexey knew that when his father once took an idea into his head, even a nail would not drive it out, as Taras Skotinin† says in the comedy. But Alexey took after his father, and was just as headstrong as he was. He went to his room and began to reflect upon the limits of paternal authority. Then his thoughts reverted to Lizaveta Grigoryevna, to his father’s solemn vow to make him a beggar, and last of all to Akulina. For the first time he saw clearly that he was passionately in love with her; the romantic idea of marrying a peasant girl and of living by the labor of his hands came into his head, and the more he thought of such a decisive step, the more reasonable did it seem to him. For some time the interviews in the wood had ceased on account of the rainy weather. He wrote Akulina a letter in the neatest handwriting, and in the wildest style, informing her of the misfortune that threatened them, and offering her his hand. He took the letter at once to the post office in the wood, and then went to bed, well satisfied with himself.

  The next day Alexey, still firm in his resolution, rode over early in the morning to visit Muromsky, in order to explain matters frankly to him. He hoped to excite his generosity and win him over to his side.

  “Is Grigory Ivanovich at home?” he asked, stopping his horse in front of the steps of the Priluchino mansion.

  “No, sir,” replied the servant; “Grigory Ivanovich rode out early this morning, and has not yet returned.”

  “How annoying!” thought Alexey…. “Is Lizaveta Grigoryevna at home, then?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alexey sprang from his horse, gave the reins to the lackey, and entered without being announced.

  “Everything is going to be decided now,” thought he, directing his steps toward the parlor. “I will explain everything to Lizaveta herself.”

  He entered … and then stood still as if petrified! Liza … no … Akulina, dear, dark-skinned Akulina, no longer in a sarafan, but in a white morning dress, was sitting in front of the window, reading his letter; she was so preoccupied that she had not heard him enter.

  Alexey could not restrain an exclamation of joy. Liza started, raised her head, uttered a cry, and wished to fly from the room. But he held her back.

  “Akulina! Akulina!”

  Liza endeavored to free herself from his grasp.

  “Mais laissez-moi donc, monsieur! Mais êtes-vous fou?” she repeated, turning away.

  “Akulina! my dear Akulina!” he repeated, kissing her hands.

  Miss Jackson, a witness of this scene, knew not what to think of it. At that moment the door opened, and Grigory Ivanovich entered the room.

  “Aha!” said Muromsky. “It seems that you have already arranged matters between you.”

  The reader will spare me the unnecessary obligation of describing the dénouement.

  The End of the Tales

  of I. P. Belkin

  * It was formerly the custom in Russia for military men only to wear the mustache (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

  † A character in The Minor, a comedy by Denis Fonvizin (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

  The Queen of Spades

  The Queen of Spades signifies secret ill-will.

  NEW FORTUNE-TELLER

  I

  When bleak was the weather,

  The friends came together

  To play.

  The stakes, they were doubled;

  The sly ones, untroubled,

  Were gay.

  They all had their innings,

  And chalked up their winnings,

  And so

  They kept busy together

  Throughout the bleak weather,

  Oho!

  There was a card party at the rooms of Narumov of the Horse Guards. The long winter night passed away imperceptibly, and it was five o’clock in the morning before the company sat down to supper. Those who had won, ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring absently at their empty plates. When the champagne appeared, however, the conversation became more animated, and all took a part in it.

  “And how did you fare, Surin?” asked the host.

  “Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky: I never raise the original stakes, I always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me out, and yet I always lose!”

  “And you have never been tempted? You have never staked on several cards in succession?… Your firmness astonishes me.”

  “But what do you think of Hermann?” said one of the guests, pointing to a young engineer. “He has never had a card in his hand in his life, he has never in his life doubled the stake, and yet he sits here till five o’clock in the morning watching our play.”

  “Play interests me very much,” said Hermann: “but I am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous.”

  “Hermann is a German: he is prudent—that is all!” observed Tomsky. “But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedotovna.”

  “How? What?” cried the guests.

  “I cannot understand,” continued Tomsky, “how it is that my grandmother does not punt.”

  “What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty not gambling?” said Narumov.

  “Then you know nothing about her?”

  “No, really; haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Oh! then listen. You must know that, about sixty years ago, my grandmother went to Paris, where she created quite a sensation. People used to run after her to catch a glimpse of ‘la Vénus moscovite.’ Richelieu courted her, and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his brains in consequence of her cruelty. At that time ladies used to play faro. On one occasion at the Court, she lost a very considerable sum to the Duke of Orleans. On returning home, my grandmother removed the patches from her face, took off her hoops, informed my grandfather of her loss at the gaming table, and ordered him to pay the money. My deceased grandfather, as far as I remember, was a sort of butler to my grandmother. He dreaded her like fire; but, on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went out of his mind; he calculated the various sums she had lost, and pointed out to her that in six months she had spe
nt half a million, that neither their Moscow nor Saratov estates were near Paris, and finally refused point-blank to pay the debt. My grandmother slapped his face and slept by herself as a sign of her displeasure. The next day she sent for her husband, hoping that this domestic punishment had produced an effect upon him, but she found him inflexible. For the first time in her life, she condescended to offer reasons and explanations. She thought she could convince him by pointing out to him that there are debts and debts, and that there is a great difference between a Prince and a coachmaker. But it was all in vain, grandfather was in revolt. He said ‘no,’ and that was all. My grandmother did not know what to do. She was on friendly terms with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count St. Germain, about whom so many marvelous stories are told. You know that he represented himself as the Wandering Jew, as the discoverer of the elixir of life, of the philosopher’s stone, and so forth. Some laughed at him as a charlatan; but Casanova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. But be that as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery surrounding him, was a man of decent appearance and had an amiable manner in company. Even to this day my grandmother is in love with him, and becomes quite angry if anyone speaks disrespectfully of him. My grandmother knew that St. Germain had large sums of money at his disposal. She resolved to have recourse to him, and she wrote a letter to him asking him to come to her without delay. The queer old man immediately waited upon her and found her overwhelmed with grief. She described to him in the blackest colors the barbarity of her husband, and ended by declaring that she placed all her hopes in his friendship and graciousness.

  “St. Germain reflected.

  “ ‘I could advance you the sum you want,’ said he; ‘but I know that you would not rest easy until you had paid me back, and I should not like to bring fresh troubles upon you. But there is another way of getting out of your difficulty: you can win back your money.’